


Minute par minute

by FLWhite



Series: mes fils stupides [2]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Acute pining, Acute self-pity, Anal Fingering, Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Rough Sex, mention of self harm, pov switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: The bad, sad, mad, burning hours of the Parisian night between S3E6 and S3E7.Lucas and Eliott thinking of each other, these young idiots.Imagine this on a split screen.





	Minute par minute

**Author's Note:**

> My love to anyone struggling with depression, anxiety, thoughts of self-harm, or dark feelings of any kind. Please know that you are worthy of feeling better, and try to talk with someone. Here's a list of hotlines/chats in the USA, Canada, East and South Asia, and Western Europe: https://thelifelinecanada.ca/help/call/
> 
> Shameless self-promotion: check out my [Tumblr](http://xiangyu.tumblr.com).

**Friday 23:55** | It's too warm tonight. Lucas has pushed the blankets to cover only his belly, but he still sweats under them. The couch manages to be scratchy and sticky at once beneath his shoulder.  
  
"Fuck," he breathes as he throws himself violently onto his side, facing the back of the couch. The tip of his nose just touches it. He briefly imagines burying his face in it. The panic of airlessness might be better than this.  
  
But he doesn't. _It's so hot. It's barely goddamn March._ The world really is on fire. He licks angrily at the acridity of his upper lip, and the taste drags him a fortnight backward in time.  
  
The sweat, beaded on the fine hairs of Eliott's nape, salt-strong on his tongue.  
  
The scent of them, mixed, in every fold of the sheets, every cranny of the pillows.  
  
Lucas shoves his hand under the waistband of his sweatpants. | Eliott opens his eyes, raises his phone above him. He feels like a phantasm in the blue glow.  
  
He has lain here since Lucille came and forced a slice of brioche into him around four P.M. The bulging ache behind his eyes remains, unshakeable.  
  
Morning is still very far away.  
  
He's all tangled in his sheets, but he hasn't the strength to kick himself free. He is like a mummy, all wizened shell, his crackled skin barely holding the dust inside him together in the shape of a boy.  
  
And yet, and yet, and yet—he's hard.  
  
Fucking Lucas. Or, his own fucking brain, like always, his stupid fucking useless disgusting brain, if he's feeling fair.  
  
But he's not feeling fair. He takes himself between thumb and forefinger, hard enough that it hurts.  
---|---|---  
  
 

**Friday 23:58** |  _Why didn't I—?_  
  
_I could've just—_  
  
He knows why. He knows why very well. Because he was and is a coward.  
  
He imagines what it might've been, those scanty hours flicking together between wakefulness and dreamless sleep, Eliott a loose-limbed bulwark beside him.  
  
Himself, stretched flat, on top, making his need known and feeling Eliott's too. Feather-stroking Eliott's tender cockhead, tasting it, opening his throat around it. Sucking in his breath, cradling Eliott in his mouth, his entire face filling with Eliott's warmth, Eliott's fragrance, the low trembling moan that shakes Eliott's whole body.  
  
His hand, frantic in its motion, finally pushes the blankets onto the floor. He'd tried to start as usual; the right wouldn't close properly, still too stiffened by the gauze and paper tape. So the left is what's left for him.  
  
Mika and Manon still aren't home yet. Any moment, they'll return.  
  
He swipes a pillow toward the edge of the couch with the back of his head, furiously. Who even gives a fuck. A single fucking fuck. |  _Why didn't I—?_  
  
_I could've just—_  
  
He knows why. He knows why very well. Because he was and is a coward.  
  
He remembers one moment among the hours, the gravely insufficient hours that they lay together, in which there was a majesty and a stillness in him that seemed like it would be sullied by words.  
  
Himself, curled close, surrounding, Lucas snoring a little, irregularly. He did reach one thumb, carefully, to skim the top of Lucas's boxer briefs. The other he folded slowly over Lucas's chest, wrapping it around the ribs, allowing its fingertips to rest on Lucas's left nipple. It felt pink to him, pink like the hollow of a seductive flower, pink like the smooth eager inside of Lucas's lips.  
  
He pauses, gasping, loosening his grip. He can't let it be this fast. There is such a long time until morning. At that moment, someone calls. _Luca_ _s_ ,  says his heart; _Lucille_ , replies his brain, coldly.  
  
His phone, buzzing, is scooting itself along the precipitous edge of the mattress. With a half-snarl, he brushes it to the floor.  
---|---|---  
  
 

**Saturday 00:05** | He kicks, uselessly, the arm of the sofa, imagining that it's himself.  
  
Nothing is happening. Precum slicks his unhurt knuckles while the injured ones twinge, because he has just smashed the Do Not Break Except In Case of Emergency glass and put the middle finger of his right hand up his ass. The last time he'd tried this, which was also the first time he'd dare let himself do it, it had made him shriek out loud as nerve endings he didn't believe he had sparkled between his legs.  
  
It still feels good—very good. Imagining it is Eliott's finger, tapering and long but a little wide in the knuckles, feels even better. But with each jolt and tremor, each squeak of the abused couch, he grows more certain of his futility. His balls are nearly flush with his body, tight and burning, two guilty coals.  
  
He is so pent that he wants to cry again.  
  
"Fuck," he mutters, as the first tear falls. | "Fuck!" he shouts into his pillow. "Fuck!"  
  
Nothing is happening. He's up to the base of his middle and ring fingers inside himself and he's practically slapping his balls against his belly and he can feel the orgasm so near—his feet will cramp if he keeps his toes pointed this hard—that every tendon is standing out on his neck, and the blood thumps hard, echoing, between his ears.  
  
He feels the ghost of Lucas's weight pressing on him, pretends that it's Lucas's hands around and inside himself. Then he remembers the gauze rolled and knotted badly around Lucas's knuckles on Tuesday.  
  
He disgusts himself but also edges a terrible step closer to climax, his hips bucking upward, imagining Lucas slapping his ass with the unhurt hand, in hard, full earnest, leaving a hot, singing sting on Eliott's flesh.  
  
It is his fault. His fault.  
---|---|---  
  
 

**Saturday, 00:07** | He should give up. He should go the fuck to sleep. Sniffling, he rolls to his feet. He'll take a piss; that might get rid of the problem. Or run some cold water on his face. Toward the bathroom he slouches, kicking the door to behind him. | It's too damn warm. He'll open a window. A book Lucille got him last year said that bedrooms ought to be cool at night. He slides off the bed, kneeling for a moment, letting his weight settle on his toes. Then he stretches himself toward the sash.  
---|---|---  
  
 

**Saturday, 00:11** |  _If_ he _were here—_  
  
Lucas knows he'd be pressed just like this against the chilly tiles by Eliott's body, touching his own at ankle and hip, waist and shoulder. Their breaths would echo raggedly, just like his does now.  
  
They'd be a little rough with each other. Eliott would put a knee between Lucas's thighs, keeping them apart, gripping Lucas with enough force that he can't tell if the tears filming his eyes and gathering at their corners are merely stragglers from before, or freshly squeezed. Eliott's knuckles would be ungentle against the tender skin of Lucas's taint, pushing against the spot that makes Lucas groan; his teeth would close on Lucas's shoulder, and leave marks.  
  
With a shocked cry, he finds himself coming, his forehead resting heavily against the tiles, the drips of his semen tap-tapping onto the bottom of the tub, little pearls clean on the dingy white.  
  
The apartment door bangs open; through it come Mika's guffaw and Manon yawning.  
  
He shucks the soiled sweatpants and boxers from his unsteady legs. Weakly, he closes his good hand around the cold-water tap, turns it, pulls the shower switch, and doesn't let himself flinch as the drops pelt mercilessly down. |  _If_ he _were here—_  
  
Eliott grimaces against the windowpane, one foot on the sill. He feels Lucas everywhere: nipping at the curve between his ribs and hipbone, ten fingers dug hard into his thigh, another hard slap on his ass.  
  
"Wait," he says, but there is no respite. Lucas, worrying the lobe of Eliott's ear between his incisors. Lucas, tongue pushing obscenely against the desperate slit of his cock. Lucas, clinging to him with all four sweaty limbs, back jammed against the window, impaling himself centimeter by tortuous centimeter on Eliott. Eliott muffles Lucas's moans with his mouth wide open, eager, gulping down every bit of the warmth, the life, the trembling flesh.  
  
He comes so hard that he bangs his cheek against the window, his muscles contracting all at once around the core of him, pulsing like a collapsing star. It seems five times as long as usual, interminable. He wonders if he will faint.  
  
The phone, facedown next to the baseboard, begins again to buzz, pestilential.  
  
He tears his shirt over his head, scrubs with it at his belly, dumps it on top of the phone while ignoring the icy prick of goosebumps across his back, up his neck, and in the crooks of his elbows. Then he wrenches the window open.  
---|---|---  
  
**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, drop a comment and leave a kudos! For a change of pace, do check out my other offerings to mes fils stupides.


End file.
